


City of Fury

by pasdexcuses



Series: if hell's a pretty place, too [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Curse Breakers, M/M, Unspeakables
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-18 01:40:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3551273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasdexcuses/pseuds/pasdexcuses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a sound coming from the north, the flapping of wings before a raven darker than the night perches on the rail. The bloody bird gives him chills all over, and when he looks down to avoid the bird’s eyes, it feels like he’s staring down at the bottom of everything. Then Potter counts to three and they both jump in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	City of Fury

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to all my lovely betas! To lauren3210 for reading this and bearing with my shitty first draft (and still being really nice about it!), to abriata for reading through something she doesn’t even like (you know I love you, right?), and to this_bloody_cat for the endless cheerleading and the awesomely careful reading she did of the final draft.
> 
> This fic is a sequel to A Conspiracy of Ravens, and I strongly recommend you read that one first (plus, it’s only 1.5k, so it shouldn’t take long :P). 
> 
> **Disclaimer:** All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.

The places he has seen eventually make him think about what-ifs and if-onlys. When he first started this job, it didn’t take much to get him on this train of thought. What if he’d known about slow-brewing Egyptian curses when the Dark Lord took up residence in his home? If only he’d known about the Mayans back then. To this day, it is never a particularly joyful train. A vindictive one, yes. But it always leaves him with the bitter after taste of knowing he’d had options. Of knowing he could’ve – should’ve – been better. 

He still wakes up in the mornings with a dull ache in his chest, a reminder of what was and what could’ve been. At some point during the war, he stopped looking into the mirror. The scar Potter gave him used to bleed through his robes at night and wake him up with its coppery smell. In fairness to Potter, Draco supposes that had more to do with the Dark Lord continuously using him for demonstrations on the Cruciatus curse than Potter’s capabilities in the arts of being evil. 

The bleeding eventually stopped. The pain did not. It’s why he can never do without the first cigarette of the day. Oddly enough, this Muggle death-on-a-stick – Draco saw an advertisement with that phrase and thought it incredibly ironic, given the circumstances – is the only thing that can numb his pain. On good days, Draco can will himself to mistake the numbness of his skin for actual death. 

It was years before the ache in his chest combined with his newfound understanding of curses stopped making him think about what-ifs and if-onlys. Years before he stopped feeling like he could vomit his guts just by thinking about the past. 

It takes barely a couple of weeks of being around Potter and his self-righteousness for the familiar feeling to seep back in through his skin. 

 

The night before they have to go underwater Draco is in a tiny room, which barely fits a bed and a nightstand and rocks heavily to the waves of the ocean. He’s never been all that happy about Potter’s plan, but even he has to admit it is a pretty solid one. 

Exactly seven days ago they’d Apparated to the coast of New York to board something called a “Transatlantic Cruise.” After flipping through the pamphlet, Draco decided only the largest rooms would be suitable, if they were to spend seven days aboard the Muggle monstrosity. But Potter had insisted on the cheapest, smallest one, claiming something about those being better for going unnoticed. As much as Draco loathed – and still loathes – the idea, it regrettably makes sense to room with the commoners. 

The plan, as Potter devised it, was to board the ship as regular Muggles and wait until they reached their estimated coordinates for Atlantis above water. They would slip out before dawn to dive in. The ship will take seventeen nights to arrive in South Hampton, giving them a reasonable window to be able to Apparate back on deck. It’s also pretty easy to track, in case the mission goes south and they have to make an unanticipated escape. 

The cruise has always been a bit of a roundabout way of getting to their coordinates. Draco could’ve provided a _magical_ ship to get them there. Except Potter had insisted on the secrecy of their mission. And so now here Draco is, in a tiny room, waiting for the clock to strike four. 

He’s already put up enchantments to ward off any wandering Muggles and is currently sorting through his belongings. All non-essentials are going in his bag. Only two things lay on the nightstand: his wand and a tiny, golden sphere that looks very much like a Snitch. 

If Draco had to choose his most valuable possession, barring his wand, he’d choose this globe. He’d procured it during a particularly nasty mission in Ethiopia, after stealing a coffin full of worthless objects except for the sphere. In truth, Draco had not even known what it was. He’d seen an odd Snitch, had taken it without a second thought. It’d been weeks before he figured out what it really was: a map-in-the-making. The globe had been designed so each holder could input their own knowledge. 

He knows they’re on the right path, knows they will find it if they follow the route. Staring at the globe is a bit like standing in the Room of Requirement. It holds so much one must ask precisely for what one wants. He figured that’s how it works; one must ask in order for the map to show. Otherwise, it’s all a very confusing blur. Ever since Potter hired him, Draco has been asking the map to show him Atlantis, with varying degrees of success. It has not escaped him how, the more they uncover, the more the map shows. 

 

The night is frigid when Draco meets Potter on the south end of the deck. The hairs on Draco’s arms stand up as he looks down at the uninviting sea. Shuddering at the thought of it, Draco pulls out one last cigarette before they dive in. 

“You put up the charms?” Potter asks.

Draco staves off the desire to roll his eyes, concentrating instead on blowing out smoke. “Of course I did.”

“And you’ve got everything on you? Food, maps, wand?”

“What are you, Potter? My mother?”

“Right,” Potter says, running a hand through his messy hair. “Shall we?”

Nodding, Draco adjusts the straps on his bag one last time. He holds fast onto the railing before throwing his legs over it. His grip is sweaty as he stands on the wrong end of the railing, looking down. The ocean breeze is messing with his hair, throwing strands all over his face, his heart beating faster than it ever has. The ocean is nothing but black water and foam. 

There’s a sound coming from the north, the flapping of wings before a raven darker than the night perches on the rail. The bloody bird gives him chills all over, and when he looks down to avoid the bird’s eyes, it feels like he’s staring down at the bottom of everything. 

Then Potter counts to three and they both jump in. 

 

They’ve been diving for almost an entire day when they finally reach the ocean basin. Despite their heating charms, Draco hasn’t felt his toes or fingers for the last nine hours. His chest hurts with a pressure that threatens to make his old scar implode. 

When it happens, it comes out of nowhere. One moment, he’s swimming in the almost darkness, the next a heavy current is dragging him, pulling downward at an impossible speed. In the swirl he tries and fails to find Potter. It’s a split second of confusion before the water settles around him again, as dark as it was. He waves his wand to cast a light but his wrist is so numb that the spell works for half a second before it dies. 

That’s when Draco sees it. A monster so beyond belief that Draco is glad his _Lumos_ barely worked because he doesn’t think he could summon the strength to face it if he had to see it too. 

He remembers the curse he studied. It’s not awfully complicated but if it works, it’ll be barely enough to get them out of there. There’s no way either of them will manage a scratch on that thing, much less kill it. 

Blood pumps slowly in his veins but Draco stalls. Because the problem is, he can’t see a bloody thing. He can’t tell where Potter is, dammit. He can feel the Leviathan drawing closer, can smell the change in the water. 

_Bloody hell._

Then Potter has a stroke of brilliance, lights up his wand, and Draco can barely spot him. Swimming to him, Draco tries his very best not to be sucked in by the current around the beast. But there’s no time, they’ll be eaten alive if they wait to find each other. He’s barely fighting the current now, so Draco makes the decision.

He turns in the general direction of the Leviathan, points his wand. There’s a red bolt when the curse hits the body. A moment’s relief before Draco realises the curse went wide, too wide, and now he’s searching for Potter in the bottomless ocean and _there’s no bloody time_. 

He hesitates a moment. He could get himself out of there. For all he knows Potter is dead. But then his mind flashes back to a room full raging fire and smoke and Potter flying over it, looking for him despite his own life being at risk. He owes Potter this much. 

It’s sheer luck, sheer, unadulterated luck when Draco finds Potter’s body. He grabs a hold of it, doesn’t bother checking what’s wrong because the first priority is to get out, out before the Leviathan can move. He knows it’s not enough time, especially not when he can barely move and Potter is entirely dead weight. 

He realises this is the only choice. He has to Apparate them the hell out of there, wherever he can, just out. It’s a good thing Draco has practise with thinking in straight, precise lines. He thinks dry, firm land, flicks his wand and holds fast onto Potter. 

 

They land on the rocky surface of an underwater cave. He breathes a deep sigh when he realises they must have somehow shortened their way. 

It’s hard, however, to feel relief once he turns to Potter. He’s as still as he was when Draco dragged them out. 

“ _Lumos_ ,” Draco whispers, flicking his wand.

Even in the tame light of his wand, Draco can see just how wide his curse went. Potter’s body is a bloody mess. He’s barely breathing, his heart barely beating. But that’s not what worries him. What worries him is the way his hand is slowly turning a nasty shade of black.

“Fuck.” Then, “Bloody, buggering _fuck_.”

Draco does his best work. He really does. He keeps the curse from advancing, seals it just above Potter’s wrist. But that’s about all he can do, not daring to do more. There could be nerve damage. There could be a shitstorm of damage in there, and Draco could accidentally make it worse. 

It’s not ideal. It’s far from ideal, and Draco is half sure Potter will have his head once he regains consciousness. 

He casts a drying spell over the both of them, reckoning Potter won’t like pneumonia on top of a useless hand. Then he casts Bluebell Flames on a rock, just big enough to illuminate around them. It’s a good thing, Draco thinks, that he was paying close attention to everything Potter did back when they were hunting for the diary. He remembers all the pertinent spells to set up camp without being noticed. Once those are done, there’s not much else Draco can do, not until Potter wakes up. 

He would’ve stayed up but now that he can sit back, he realises just how spent he is and settles to drift off into uneasy sleep.

 

Draco wakes up to the sound of Potter calling his name. Rubbing his eyes, Draco takes a moment to remember where he is, what’s just happened. 

“You cursed my hand,” Potter states, staring at his palm in utter disbelief.

“Well, Potter, I’m sorry. I was simply trying to save you from being eaten alive,” Draco retorts.

For a moment, it looks like Potter is on the verge of saying something spiteful. But then he takes a look around himself, shoulders hunching. 

“I remember,” Potter says instead. “Thank you, I suppose.”

Biting his cheek, Draco nods. He doesn’t trust himself with words right now. 

They’re carefully avoiding each other’s eyes when Potter’s rumbling stomach interrupts their silence. 

It’s a good thing Potter thought of sticking charms before they set off into the ocean. Neither of their bags got lost in all the commotion. They’ve got enough food between them to last for ten days, clean clothes and the same old tent Potter brought with him the last time they were on the field. Even Draco’s cigarettes are intact.

They set up the tent in silence. It doesn’t escape Draco’s notice the way Potter’s cursed hand trembles, like he’s straining it to its limits with the small movements. If Draco ends up doing more than Potter, neither of them mentions it. 

The inside of the tent smells as funny as it did the first time Draco set foot in it. He’s pleased to find the curtains he’d set up around one of the beds are still there. 

Bringing out all his food, Draco leaves it on the small table for Potter to pick whatever he needs. He doesn’t feel like eating but his wetsuit is torn and uncomfortable. With a curt nod to Potter, he walks to his bed to change behind the curtains. 

Taking off the suit is a more painful ordeal than anticipated. For one, Draco has a burn the size of his hand on the back of his left shoulder. For another, the scar on his chest is starting to beat alive under the heat of the tent. Asking Potter for help with his shoulder would probably end in Potter catching a glimpse of the pink, angry line on him. Draco’s no healer but he knows enough first aid to treat a burn by himself. 

Wand raised, Draco stretches out his arm. There’s a loud pop, louder than it should’ve been, then Potter’s voice, “Malfoy?”

“Fine,” Draco says through gritted teeth. 

He rotates his shoulder experimentally, bearing the pain without a single sound. A few minutes later, Draco makes his way outside in clean clothes. 

 

They walk for what feels like days in the darkness and silence, setting up camp when they get hungry or their feet hurt too much to keep going, whichever happens first. It’s slow going and the cave seems to have no end to it. Sometimes, Draco can’t help but feel like he Apparated them to an infinite loop where time moves in circles instead of forward. 

In the darkness of the cave, time appears to be eating itself up. An hour is a minute, a minute is an hour. Time as they know it doesn’t exist. Despite the hourglass in the tent, time feels like it stretches out, to the point where even the hourglass seems crooked if Draco stares at it long enough. 

It’s day six, according to the hourglass, when a loud crash wakes Draco up. He rushes out of the tent to find Potter, cheeks covered in dark dust, glancing between the new hole he’s just created in the ground and Draco. 

It reminds Draco so much of Seamus Finnigan in Potions that he can’t control the eruption of laughter that bursts out of him. He’s doubling over, clutching at his stomach with how hard he’s laughing. 

“Er…” he hears Potter say. 

It’s a moment before his fit of laughter finally dies down. It almost starts back again when he looks at Potter staring on the edge of the hole.

“What did you do?” Draco asks, smirking.

“I was…er… trying to,” Potter says, gesturing with his good hand. “Well, that’s really not the point. Come here, have a look.” 

Draco approaches carefully, wondering what Potter wants. It becomes quite clear when he peers down at the hole and the smallest glimmer of blue light stares back at him. He can’t tell what’s beyond the light as an equally blue mist is rising up. 

“I think we’ve been going about it all wrong,” Potter says. “I think we have to go down there.”

 

Excavating hard rock is not as easy as Potter’s accident made it seem. They have to go about it carefully, lest they destabilise the surface so much that they fall straight through. There’s no telling what’s down there other than blue light. It’s not easy but between the two of them they manage a hole just wide enough to fit through.

“I don’t know about this,” Draco says, eyeing the rising mist meaningfully. It fills his nostrils, making his chest ache a little.

Potter, naturally, shakes his head. “Come on. I’ll go first, it’ll be easier for you to help me down than the other way around.”

“But—”

“I don’t reckon there’ll be anything that’s going to kill us down there.”

“Really?” Draco asks skeptically. “And how would you know that?”

Potter shrugs. “I don’t. But I think anything lethal would’ve already risen to have a go at us.”

“This is moronic,” Draco says as he settles around the edge to help Potter down. 

They’ve got a rope secured to a rock, which Potter starts to fasten very slowly around himself. It’s obvious they’ll both die in this cave before Potter manages to harness himself with his one good hand. Draco bats Potter’s hand away to take over. He works the rope expertly, making sure every knot is tight enough.

Tugging at the rope on Potter’s waist, he asks, “Alright?”

Draco’s motions make Potter draw closer to him, their chests almost brushing. Potter’s cheeks are pink as he nods. It makes Draco drop his hands immediately.

“Right,” Potter says. 

Draco is too busy looking away to notice the moment when Potter starts his descent. He feels his end of the rope going taught, turns his head to find Potter’s head already disappearing into the ground.

“Bloody hell, Potter!” Draco exclaims, holding the rope.

The hole they’ve dug cannot be more than eight feet deep so it’s not long before Potter is all the way inside wherever the hell the hole leads to. The rope goes loose in Draco’s hands.

“Potter?” Draco calls down. “Potter, you alive?”

Potter’s voice comes muffled, sounding further away than it should. “It’s fine!”

“If I die here,” Draco starts muttering, mostly to himself. “I’ll come back to haunt you.” He’s tempted to close his eyes before he pushes over the edge, but that would be a stupid way of getting himself injured. 

He knows the moment something goes wrong. First, he’s been doing this for far too long – his instincts are perfectly fine-tuned to danger. Second, and more important, Draco can tell the moment the air changes. It feels dense, heavy as it flows to his lungs. Like a weight he can’t carry inside of him.

His first reaction is to climb back up, get away from whatever the hell the mist is, but Potter tugs at the rope.

“Malfoy, it’s _fine_ ,” he calls from below.

 _No, it’s not_ , Draco thinks, panic rising in his throat like bile.

It’s not fine, and Draco has to push down his worries as his lungs fill with the blue mist. He makes his way down fast, holding his breath, and yet, it seems like an eternity before his feet finally find where to land. He lets go of the rope, looks around. 

He can feel his eyes going wide as he takes in his surroundings. There are giant plants growing all over the place, flowers like he’s never seen growing on them. It’s a jungle of unknown vegetation that takes away whatever little breath he’s got left. He inhales, forgetting what it felt like just a minute ago. 

The air is damp, cold and heavy. Heavier than it was in the hole. 

Within seconds, Draco is doubling over, coughing it out, his body rejecting it, rejecting the pain it brings. He falls to his knees, coughing so hard for so long that he misses Potter placing a hand on his back. He hears Potter’s voice distantly, though. Asking him something, something he can’t understand.

He tries to breathe but each breath hurts more than the previous one. It seems never-ending. His hands are covered with blood, the air now smelling coppery on top of the dampness of the mist. 

That’s all he remembers before passing out. 

 

There’s a long shadow with slimy fingers coming at him. It makes him cold, colder than he’s ever felt. It breathes ice on his face, forces its way through Draco’s mouth, makes him choke on thin air.

 

Draco gasps awake. His vision is blurry, making him panic. There’s a hand on his shoulder that settles him back on the ground. With his eyes closed, Draco wills himself to calm down. It doesn’t take much once he realises he can breathe despite the pain. He’s not coughing up blood anymore, at the very least.

When he opens his eyes, Potter’s face is hovering above his. He blinks at him. Then he pushes onto his elbows to sit up. 

“What was that?” Potter asks, fixing his glasses.

Draco doesn’t answer. He grabs his bag, rummaging through it until he finds his pack of cigarettes and lighter. 

“You have got to be kidding, Malfoy,” Potter says, eyes shining green. “You were just coughing up half a lung, you can’t—” He gestures at Draco’s hand holding a cigarette.

“This,” Draco replies, waving his hand in front of Potter, “is none of your bloody business.”

Taking a drag, Draco can feel his body warring with itself. He’s coughing again, tasting blood before he knows it. It passes, eventually, though the cigarette doesn’t bring the relief it should. It gets the job done none the less. He smokes the first one too quickly, takes out a second one right away. At this rate, Draco thinks, he’ll be out before they find anything. He holds off on the third one but keeps the pack in his pocket. 

No need to pretend he’s not gonna be blowing smoke every other hour now. 

Gray smoke battles blue mist in front on him. Beyond, the landscape is as breathtaking as it was before he passed out. The plants are like the drawings of ancient ferns but different. They’re over twenty feet tall and a peculiar shade of green. Not bright lime like leaves in summer but a deep green laced with lines of blue. Even the flowers that come in every colour and shape seemed to be laced with the same lines. 

He wonders if it’s something in the streams of water that run all over the place, like veins in a body. 

 

Draco had underestimated how much he would need his cigarettes. As they make their way through the overgrown vegetation, he finds himself increasingly short for breath, the ache in his chest growing. He forces himself to space them out, though. 

Potter’s given him Ministry flasks for all the samples they’re supposed to take. Draco dutifully does as he walks behind Potter, cutting leaves and flowers, bottling them. It’s a good thing Potter decided he was to be the one to lead the way. After all, it’d be rather hard for Draco to hide the second set of samples he takes as they go. He’s positive taking samples of his own is generally frowned upon by the Ministry and its employees.

They’ve been walking around for so many days, researching for months since they first started out that Draco is almost convinced this is not it. There’ll be something more. Another cave, more water, more _something_. 

He’s not expecting to find the final proof of where they are a mere couple of hours after they set off. But that is exactly what happens. He’s collecting samples on the ground, small pebbles that in the light shine blue, as everything else in this place, when Potter calls his name is a soft whisper.

“Malfoy,” is all Potter says. 

It’s all he needs to say for as soon as Draco looks up, he sees what Potter’s looking at between the giant parted leaves. 

Standing right in front of him is a giant temple in ruins. A majestic construction covered in green all over, overgrown vines, trees, leaves. A majestic ruin that the vegetation threatens to swallow. 

Atlantis. 

 

The hike up to the temple is harder than anything else they’ve done. It makes the Leviathan and the cave seem like walks in the park. The way is steep and the vegetation so dense it is impossible to see exactly where their feet land. The smell of water is everywhere.

They realise the ground is not to be trusted when Potter nearly falls through a hole when he steps on the wrong leaf. Potter’s reflexes are fast but his hand doesn’t help. He tries to hold onto a branch, but quickly slips. Draco barely manages to grab a hold of Potter’s arm before he falls all the way to Merlin knows where.

And maybe it’s the strain of the past days, the constant pain in his chest since they landed here, but the wound in his chest feels like it’s starting to open up with Potter’s weight. Then the muscles in his arm start shaking and giving out before his grip starts slipping. Potter’s eyes go wide.

“Potter,” Draco grits through his teeth. “Potter, I can’t pull you up.”

They’re both sweating, it’s too bloody humid in there. He feels Potter slipping, tries to grab onto him despite his skin feeling as though it’s stretched thin. 

“ _Levicorpus_ ,” Potter says.

“What?”

“ _Levicorpus_ , the spell, you—”

Draco has no idea what Potter’s saying but he’s about to fall into a bottomless pit, so Draco whips out his wand and flicks it. He feels the weight of Potter lift before he sees Potter floating just above him.

“Put me down!” Potter bellows from where he floats. 

For a second Draco is torn between laughing at Potter floating upside down and actually bringing him down. It then occurs to him that he doesn’t even know how to bring Potter down. Where does Potter even get these spells?

Draco twirls his wand experimentally, stifles a laugh when Potter twirls with it. “I would, Potter, but you see, this is not my spell.”

Potter frowning upside down is a funny enough sight that makes Draco forget all about his arm sticking out at an abnormal angle. But it would be rude to leave Potter hanging, so he flicks his wand again, says the incantion as Potter instructs. Potter falls to the ground with a thud, a few feet from Draco. 

“You alright?” Draco asks, smirking down at Potter.

Then, because it seems like the right thing to do, he offers Potter his hand. It shouldn’t surprise him as much as it does when all Potter does is roll his eyes before proceeding to stand up, ignoring Draco’s extended palm. 

Draco puts his hand back in his pocket, glares at the vegetation so Potter doesn’t get any wrong ideas. 

“Is something the matter with your shoulder?” Potter asks.

Draco is still no looking in Potter’s direction as he shrugs with his good arm. 

“I can have a look at it,” Potter offers next.

“That won’t be necessary,” Draco says. 

“Really, I can. We have to take a course on survival healing before field missions and—”

Draco cuts him off, “I don’t care, Potter. Go show off for someone else.”

When he turns in Potter’s general direction, Potter is looking almost betrayed. He glares at Draco, saying, “You’re a git, Malfoy.” He stalks in front of Draco, making his way without bothering to check if Draco is following him. 

Potter comes back with two sticks in hand and gives one to Draco. “So you don’t have to go through the hassle of helping me again,” Potter explains before he starts poking the terrain.

They continue to make their way. There’s something odd about this place. Other than the blue mist and the weird plants growing everywhere. When he looks up at the sky, the moon is already making its way through the clouds. There’s something but Draco can’t put his finger on what it is. He wonders if Potter feels it, too. Though there’s no way Draco’s asking him anything.

 

The hike to the temple takes longer than either of them expected. The ruins, which seemed so close when they first spotted them, are further away than what their eyes could tell. Nightfall catches them halfway there, and they set camp carefully amongst the leaves. 

Draco is lying on his bed, curtains drawn. There’s a loud splash coming from outside, dragging him out. He’s ready to yell at Potter for falling _again_ but then he spots Potter under the moonlight.

He is indeed in one of the streams but he’s not drowning. In fact, his clothes and glasses are piled messily by the edge of the stream. Potter sinks into the water, rises back up, combing fingers through his hair. It’s Draco’s first time seeing Potter nearly naked and he’s trying very hard not to think about it. 

Because Potter’s body is made of sculpted muscle, fine skin and dark hair. He’s got scars, too. But they’re faded, healed with time. 

His blood feels warmer than before, pulsing with the sweet tang of want. 

Draco shakes his own head as he walks back to the tent. It’d be very idiotic for him to think about Potter in those terms. If there’s one thing curse-breaking has taught him it’s to never make the same mistake twice, and Draco intends not to do so. 

 

The night is restless for Draco as he keeps waking up with pains like small needles in his chest. He hears Potter tossing around in bed, probably equally restless. 

If Potter were anyone else, Draco would probably suggest they both gave up the pretense of sleep in favour of more productive activities.

If Potter were anyone else, Draco probably wouldn’t be here. 

 

At night, a city burns. It burns bright orange against ashes and black smoke. 

But Draco won’t burn. Too cold, wrapped in slithering shadows, he’s destined to look and do nothing. The shadows grab him, keep him in place. Their long nails scratch painfully at the scar on his chest, whispering inaudible things in his ears.

Somewhere, a city burns with everything and everyone still in it. Draco recognises the smell of burnt flesh. 

 

Draco wakes up before dawn. He waits until he can see the first crack of daylight to make his way out of the tent. The sky is an odd shade of purple that he’s never seen before. Staring at it, it occurs to him that things like dawn and nightfall should not be possible underwater. Not as they know them. He glances upwards, grey smoke mixing with the ever-present blue mist. This place shouldn’t be possible. Yet here it is. 

There’s a rustle behind him.

“I’ve got a riddle for you, Potter,” Draco says, not bothering to take his eyes off the impossible sky. 

“Morning to you, too, Malfoy,” Potter replies.

“What looks like the sun but isn’t?”

“What?”

Draco shakes his head. He glances from the sky to Potter and then back. Then asks again, “What looks like the moon but isn’t?”

Frowning at him, Potter opens and closes his mouth. He turns his head in the exact direction Draco’s been staring at, then frowns some more. 

“The sun is a star isn’t it?” Potter finally says. “I… I hadn’t thought about it but. Well, it’d have to be some sort of star.”

“Stars are bigger than planets,” Draco says, considering the amount of energy it would take to power a place as big as this. A quick scan should reveal a source as big as the one needed. But Draco can’t see anything but vegetation and mist and that faraway temple. “Haven’t you heard ours is over a hundred times bigger than our planet?” 

Stars are not the kind of thing you can hide under a pile of rocks and plants. 

Potter tilts his head. “Alright, not as big but with the same energy. Sort of.”

“That’s a massive ‘sort of’.” He pauses. Staring at this place makes his stomach feel rather bottomless. He turns to scrutinise Potter. “Is that what we’re looking for?”

“Is what what we’re looking for?”

“A _sort of_ massive, fake or otherwise, star?”

Potter makes an exasperated noise. “I’ve told you all I know.”

It’s not the first time Draco’s questioned the intentions behind this little expedition of theirs. It probably won’t be the last. Somehow, he doubts finding a lost island is all they’re here for. He sighs, reckoning he won’t get more out of Potter for the time being. 

At least those bloody birds are gone. For now. 

 

They continue their hike after breakfast. They walk on and on until whatever it is that is on the sky reaches its highest point. They’re still nowhere closer than they were yesterday, and Draco’s starting to get this nagging feeling like they’re walking in circles, even though the temple has always been straight ahead. 

“Malfoy,” Potter says, stopping suddenly ahead of him, his halt so unexpected that Draco walks straight into him. 

“What in Merlin’s name was that for?” Draco asks, taking a couple of steps back. “Don’t just bloody stop like—”

“I think we’ve been going in circles,” Potter interrupts, completely ignoring Draco’s justified objections.

“Well, that’s impossible, we’ve been walking towards that,” Draco replies, pointing at the temple.

“I know that,” Potter says. “But. I reckon it’s under a spell. You know, like the ones Hogwarts is under.” Draco takes a moment to blink at Potter. When it becomes clear he has no idea what Potter is talking about, Potter asks, “Did you never read _Hogwarts: A History_?”

This makes Draco roll his eyes so hard, he can feel them almost popping out of his own face. Then, with as much disdain as he can muster, he says, “Oh, because _you_ did.”

At this, Potter blushes. “Doesn’t matter,” he replies. “The point is, the castle is charmed so Muggles can’t find it. So they turn away if they stumble upon it.”

“Well, that is a fine reasoning, Potter. Congratulations on coming up with it,” Draco says, fighting the urge to ironically slow-clap at Potter. “Only one problem, _we_ are not Muggles.”

“Well, yes, but it could be enchanted similarly!” Potter insists.

“But then how would _anyone_ find it?”

“There must be something. Something we’re missing. Have you still got the diary with you?”

“Of course I’ve still got the diary on me, Potter. How daft do you think I am?”

This time, it’s Potter’s turn to roll his eyes. 

Rummaging through his bag, Draco takes out a couple of books before he finds the diary, which hasn’t been of much use to them since they plotted the route that led them here. It has lost more than a couple of pages throughout time. A few crucial pages, if the half-started paragraphs that speak of ‘the unbelievable’ are anything to go by. 

He hands Potter the diary. Draco doesn’t so much as look at Potter while he concentrates very hard on each page. He doesn’t pay attention to Potter’s habits. Like the way Potter bites his lower lip or the way his entire face falls in disappointment.

These are not for Draco to document. 

“Found anything?” he asks, pretending to be more exasperated than he actually is.

“No.”

“Give it here.”

Draco doesn’t wait for Potter to finish the page before he takes the thing out of his hands. He scans the pages faster than Potter, finds nothing, just as Potter. He’s about to give up when remembers something funny he read ages ago, when they first found the diary. It was just before a missing page…

“‘All the roads lead to Rome’,” Draco reads aloud, when he finally finds it.

“That’s a Muggle saying.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Merlin’s beard, Potter, what does it _mean_?”

“Well, the Roman Empire was the most powerful of its time. ‘All roads lead to Rome’ means that all paths lead to the centre of, well, everything. Which, in the case of the Roman Empire, meant Rome, its capital.”

“I don’t reckon that’s in here because this Shepherd person was fond of the phrase.”

There’s nothing else about Rome or paths after that page, which Draco assumes is because everything there was to say was said in the missing one. It is incredibly inconvenient, but he’s certain it means something. 

“All paths, you said?”

“Yes,” Potter replies. “All paths. But what does that have to do with spells? Paths are not spells.”

Draco tilts his head, considering what Potter’s just said. “Unless, they, too, are enchanted.”

“What, so you have to get on the path to get to the centre?”

It is probably the simplest, stupidest solution to their current situation. And yet. 

“The answer’s often that simple,” Draco says, smiling at himself. “I think we have to find one of these paths, Potter.”

“Got any ideas?” Potter asks, looking around them.

It occurs to Draco that Potter is posing a fine question. There’s nothing but plants to be seen for miles.

 

In the end, it’s Potter who cracks it, using, of all things, _Finite Incantatem_. Potter points his wand at nowhere in particular, and, as soon as the words are out of his mouth, a stone path appears a few feet away from them. 

The stones, cut and polished to serve the purpose of a road, are covered in moss. They’re slippery and uneven, effectively slowing them down. 

It’s very hard, however, to care about how slow they’re going when, the closer they get to the temple, the more _things_ they start to find on the ground. Draco doesn’t know what they are, except that they were part of a bigger something else. Some look like torn wings, which is ludicrous since most of the things are made of stone. Then there are those that look more, well, functional. Half a table here, half a chair there. 

He’s moving what looks distinctively like a toy when it strikes him. What’s been bothering him about this place and its eery quiet. It’s not just a temple in ruins. It’s an entire city, devastated. 

 

It takes an entire day of walking to get to the foot of the temple. There’s a dense jungle just before the wall of the temple, where the trees grow so tall and wide that their roots have upturned some of the stones in the path. 

Then Potter nearly runs into a wall. He misses it by a couple of inches. He dodges it and walks instead through a heavy curtain of vines. Once he’s past the threshold, Potter stands there, transfixed.

And really, there’s not much else to do in the face of what stands in front of them. There’s a lake, water as dark as the deep sea, that separates the jungle from what lies ahead. The stone path, the bridge to cross to the other side, where a giant temple with golden domes rises out of the jungle, standing after everything else has succumbed to nature. 

The imposing structure makes them pause at the foot of the stairs leading to the gates. Now, within the walls, a number of paths can be seen, all of them circling the temple. Now it makes sense. Every path leads to the centre. 

Draco picks up a rock and throws it in the lake experimentally. He glances at Potter meaningfully when the rock never hits bottom. 

“I suppose we’d better not fall in,” Potter says.

 

The temple looks as deserted as the rest of Atlantis, although everything in it is much better preserved. They walk past a room full of scrolls, then one with statues with peeling gold paint on them. Statues of men and women with long hair and heavy, elaborated togas. Some wearing the same, carved crown. 

They’re in a room with only a couple of torn tapestries in it when Potter says, “It’ll take days to scout this place,” his voice echoing off the walls. 

“We better keep to the path, then.”

They both look down at the floor. While the path disappeared a while ago, there are two sets of coloured stone on each side of their feet. The temple is as big inside as it threatened to be on the outside. There are no skulls on the floors, but something about the place reminds Draco of those stories his mother read to him about greedy thieves reaching for more than they could take on. They make a point of keeping to the path before them. 

All roads lead to Rome. 

 

It’s after they cross the most magnificent garden Draco has ever seen, with fountains and flowers in every colour imaginable, that they become quieter than they’ve ever been. As though both of them can feel they’re close to _something_. 

 

The path ends with an enormous golden door. It’s firmly closed but everything else is so quiet that the heaving sounds coming from the inside are audible. 

Potter takes his wand out, asking. “You remember what I told you about back up?”

Draco nods, his wand out too, now. 

Nodding as well, Potter waves his hand. “ _Alohomora_.”

The golden door opens, heavier than it looked just a second ago. It screeches against the floor. 

Then a dark hall floods with a light so incandescent it blinds. 

Draco can only hear it when something, someone, says, “Ah.” A pause, a heave. “Welcome to Atlantis. I have been waiting for you.”

 

The light settles slowly to reveal a round bed that takes up half of the room. Unlike the other rooms, everything here is intact. The tapestry shines like new, the walls are bright and clean. The marble on the floor a perfect white. 

None of these are what catches their attention. 

As soon as Draco finds her, his eyes focus on the old lady resting on the bed. Thin and frail, all brown skin and bones. White hair so long that it falls delicately from her shoulders to the marble. Her face is leathery with age, her sagging skin threatening to melt to the floor. She looks older than time itself.

But something in her eyes keeps Draco glued to his spot. They are the lightest blue, like mist around her black pupils, shining as bright as the stars.

It’s Potter who takes a step forward, Potter who speaks first.

“Hello,” Potter says, eloquent as ever. “I’m Harry. Er, Harry Potter.”

“Harry,” she repeats, nodding almost imperceptibly. “I am the Queen of Atlantis.”

Potter halts for a moment. Everything is too quiet, too still. 

Then Potter starts walking again, more cautiously this time, as he asks, “You said you’ve been waiting for us?” 

The Queen nods again. “I knew you would come.” She stops to draw in a long, deep breath. “The raven’s people.”

In a split second, Draco’s heart starts to race. His legs move on their own, his mouth works before he knows it. 

“What happened here?” He’s standing at the foot of the Queen’s bed, closer to her than Potter. She looks worse close up, like she’s clutching to life out of sheer force of will. “What happened to _you_?”

She stares at him curiously. For a second, Draco worries she might answer Potter’s question before his. But then she smiles, sharp as a snake’s fangs. 

“What happened to me,” she starts. “And what happened here are one and the same. Everything’s dead or dying.” She looks up at the ceiling, which Draco now notices for the first time. It is covered in its entirety with scenes painted in circumferences, starting with a giant circle at the very edges of the dome and ending with a tiny spot at the very centre. “It’s the story of Atlantis, painted so those who should remember do,” the Queen says. She fixes her eyes on them. “This is what you’re here for. To learn about Atlantis’ hunger.”

“What do you mean, hunger?” Potter asks. 

Her eyes sharpen by a fraction, making her look ten times less frail. She clears her throat before she starts. 

 

“…Hunger pushed Atlantis underwater. The weight of the magic Atlantis’ people researched started sinking the island, inch by inch. Atlantis already had more magic than the known world put together. And then, its people sought more. They sought absolute power, to control that which could never be tamed. And so they created a brand new star. A star that held a magical energy so powerful it could force the hand of any god. But great things come at a great price.

“Devastation didn’t happen in a single day. It was a slow chain of disasters over long years. From the moment Atlantis set eyes on its impossible prize, it never stood a chance. It started with homes in the outskirts, flooded all the way to their ceilings. Their people moved. The paths that cracked with water were quickly filled with more stone. Walls that sank slowly into the ground were built higher.

“People got used to rowing boats to visit neighbours, to swimming instead of walking. It became a new way of life. Atlantis was already underwater when the waves came. The water recoiled from the island, and, for a few hours, the people rejoiced in their land. But the sages, those who’d sought the greatest power, knew better. They stood in a room around great masks made of stone and watched them tremble while they tried and failed to hold the artificial star within. 

“Atlantis was going under, it was not a matter of ‘if’ but ‘when’. And ‘when’ had finally arrived. The royal family ordered everyone to go home and lock their doors. Barricade them with everything, prepare for the worst storm the island had ever seen. This was not enough. 

“The moment the first wave hit, it swallowed every home and person with it. It sank everything to the bottom, left nothing and no one. Screams filled the island when the second wave came, closer to Atlantis. Roofs were flying with the force of the storm. It was the end of Atlantis. 

“Or so everyone thought. The island was going down. Everyone felt the ground shaking and sinking. Then something unforeseen occurred. The youngest of the sages, also the firstborn of the royal family, saw his daughter in the distance. It would’ve been seconds before the water got to her, sank her down. His heart swelled in his chest before he did what no one had thought of doing; he stepped through the masks, into the blue star. For a second, the ground stopped shaking, the water stopped coming. 

“But the star the sages had created was as hungry as her creators. The second passed, and Atlantis began sinking to its death again. No other sage wanted to sacrifice, so the younger ones pushed the oldest one to the star, which ate him. But the trembling ground did not stop. They threw another one, and again, nothing changed. 

“It was not a sage but a servant who understood what it meant. There was no time to explain as he placed his hand to his heart and thought of his wife and children before walking to the burning light. Everything stopped once more, longer this time. 

“It was the servant’s wife who noticed the masks rising as the body of her husband was consumed within. She pointed at it and said the simplest thing anyone could have said: ‘He loved us.’

“It was then that everyone in the room understood what the star wanted. Unlike the greedy hearts of the sages, the star wanted what it was never given: love. And so it was that the bravest of the sages walked willingly to the light while the rest saw the masks rising higher. 

“It took four more sages for Atlantis to be saved. Seven people sacrificed themselves that day but even their sacrifice was not enough to repent for the greed of so many. The sages left enchanted our ancient stones. Giant stone masks were levitated to the edges of the island so that when Atlantis sank to the bottom of the ocean, these became the pillars that still protect our city. 

“But those sacrifices would not be enough to keep alive the people trapped within. The Queen of Atlantis, connected forever to the star since her son stepped into the blue flame, felt the hunger of it like a pulse in her veins. They knew what had to be done. It was decided that, every seven years, seven people of Atlantis would sacrifice themselves to the star. We stopped calling it star, for it had to be kept underground to be protected. It was its vapours, a rising mist through the underground, what gave life to everything above. The mist allowed the sages to create and sustain a system that emulated day and night; a system that took water from the ocean and made it drinkable before it came to our crops. The mist was like blood being pumped into Atlantis’ veins, and the star became our most precious heart. 

“And so it was that, since its downfall, Atlantis taught its people that to sacrifice to our heart was the highest honour. It was the choice of the bravest, the choice of those who loved the hardest. 

“You see, our hearts were too greedy. Our punishment was to live with that hunger for the rest of our lives.

“Our heart is full of magic. Of our own people’s magic. It’s their strength that keeps the sea away, that keeps our lands dry, our homes safe. It fuels everything, breathes life into that which should not exist under the darkness. 

“We were proud of our heart. And yet paying a toll in human lives was always going to be an impossible price to sustain. Not long after Atlantis sank, people began looking for ways out. It took centuries of studying, of trying and failing, before someone finally made it to the world above. 

“People left their homes, hoping for a better life. 

 

“…And now, only the heart and I remain. It and the royal family have always been one and the same. So long as there is royal blood in this place, the heart will continue beating to save it.” The Queen smiles, tears swelling in her eyes. “We’ve been waiting for you. We’ve been waiting so we, too, can die.”

 

The story the Queen told is the same painted on the ceiling, detail by detail. It is madness to think people created a magic powerful enough to keep this place going. It was probably madness to create it in the first place. 

Draco thinks of the city outside, its torn, empty remains and wonders if this is what remorse looks like. 

The Queen breathes a heavy sigh. She sits as she was when they found her, braced and barely existing on the bed. 

“So you’re dying,” Draco says. It’s more a statement than a question but the Queen still nods. “How long have you been dying?”

“I don’t know,” she answers. “I had people for that, but they left, too. Long, long ago.”

Draco wants to ask her more questions, but Potter beats him to it, announcing it’s getting late. “Can we come back in the morning? Is there anything you need?”

“You may.” The Queen glances briefly at Draco before she turns her attention to Potter. “Could you be so kind and bring me water in the morning? It’s hard for me to move in my old age.” 

 

Draco follows Potter outside. They easily find a couple of adjacent sleeping chambers just outside the Queen’s room. He walks past as Potter opens one of the two doors, wishing to be alone sooner rather than later. But Potter stops him before he goes inside.

He says, “I don’t know what any of this means.”

 _If you think hard enough, you will._ Instead, Draco replies, “Goodnight, Potter.”

 

Draco’s chamber is so full of dust that it takes a fierce combination of _Evanesco_ and _Scourgify_ to get the place to resemble somewhere livable. Too tired to do much else, Draco flops on the bed, distantly glad to be sleeping in a room where four firm walls separate him from the rest of the world. 

 

Strange shadows hunt his dreams that night. They pull him and push him, tear at his skin with all their might. They get him on his knees, on the brink of an abyss, grabbing his hair to force him to look down at a city in flames. At everything and everyone burning below. 

The cries fill his ears, the smell of burnt flesh rises up his nostrils. It all turns to ashes before his eyes, black smoke and ashes and screams and blood. 

Then the shadows draw closer still, whispering in cold breaths in his ear, “If penitence were a pretty place, too.”

 

Draco wakes up with a start, his body covered in cold sweat. For the briefest of seconds, he panics, his head still playing tricks on him. But it’s not the memory of a bad dream that rattles in his chest. For a moment, he opens his eyes and sees his old bedroom in Malfoy Manor. The moonlight filters through just as it did when he was still living there. But he hasn’t lived there. Not since the war ended. 

His heart beats in his chest, and he’s expecting to find his shirt red with his own blood. But it’s all just the memory of a real shadow haunting him. Soon he realises the stained glass on the windows is broken beyond repair. He rubs his face, touches the warm wetness running down his cheeks with his fingertips.

 

Morning light breaks through the window, waking him up a second time. It’s late now, the light is high up in the sky. He can’t remember the last time he slept past the break of dawn. 

Standing in the middle of it, Draco inspects his room. Nothing too out of the ordinary, all valuables probably stolen when everyone left. It is strange, but in its decrepit state, the room still shines with the memory of refinement. 

Everything left is quite tasteful. The bedding, embroidered with fine golden and blue thread on green silk fabric. Whatever is left of the woodwork still displays an attention to detail. Even the half-broken window is sadly magnificent with its cracked stained glass. 

He wonders how long they’ll stay here. Another couple of nights at the very least, which means unpacking is more than worth it. 

He stretches out his clothes, feeling like he’s stretching out his own limbs. The books come out next. His own journal, a book on ancient runes and the Shepherd’s diary. Everything in his bag has the distinct smell of things that have been kept from sunlight and fresh air for too long. 

Now, in privacy, he can bring out his tiny globe. He considers leaving it along with the rest of his things, but. Putting it in his pocket, Draco moves to the window.

He notices the strange shape of the handle, like an ancient rune of some sort, though Draco can’t really place it. Frowning, he opens the window as far as it goes to let out a gray cloud of smoke. He rubs his thumb over the rune, makes a mental note to look it up when he gets the time before going out to knock on Potter’s door. 

 

Potter, as it is, is still asleep when Draco goes to find him. He considers knocking until he wakes Potter up or barging into his room. Then again, this might just be his chance.

Making his way back to his room, Draco takes one of his books.

 

The halls look different now that he’s had some proper rest. He can see the details he missed earlier. Or perhaps it’s that he can see them now that he knows what they are. He recognises the painted sequences on the walls now, understands them to be part of Atlantis’ history. 

One of them catches his eye. There’s a scene of someone in a long robe holding a perfect sphere followed by a map of the world. It’s just the bare outline of the continents, Atlantis marked with the same rune he noticed in his room. But that’s not what catches his eye. What catches his eye are the lines like veins drawn across the entire globe, making all sorts of connections. The following scene is very clearly the creation of the fake star the Queen told them about. 

He stares at the map, bothered by it. 

There’ll be time for that later.

 

The door to the Queen’s chamber is open when he finds it. As far as Draco can see, there’s no one inside but her. 

The room looks different when she’s not in bed. Instead, she sits at a small table, facing her door. There’s something about her sharp expression that reminds Draco of Dumbledore. He thinks distantly that old people have no business having eyes so keen.

“You wanted to be alone with me.”

It’s not a question but Draco still feels compelled to answer, “Yes.” 

“Come closer,” she says, motioning to chair across from her. 

Closing the door behind him, Draco crosses the distance to sit at the table with her. He lays the book on the table.

Tapping the cover, Draco asks, “You’ve seen this before, haven’t you?”

The Queen takes the book in her hands. Her long fingers trace the runes on the cover. 

“I thought it was lost,” she replies at last. She flips the first couple of pages, brushing the seams of torn pages and frowning. “You have not taken great care of it.”

“We found it like this. Do you know who wrote it?”

“Of course I do. It was my father.”

“Why would the king of Atlantis need a key to Atlantis?” Draco pauses. “Or is that not what the diary is, a key?”

The Queen considers him. “A lot of things get forgotten with time.” She looks down at the book in front of her before sliding it back to Draco. “But you’re not here to discuss literature with me, are you?”

“You’re very observant.”

“There’s not much else to do in this deserted place but observe.”

At this, Draco smiles thinly. “You’ve seen the ravens here.”

“And so I have. But I suspect you know more about them than I do.”

“When was the last time you saw them?”

“When?” she repeats. “I cannot answer that in terms you understand. Time here isn’t measured in hours and daybreaks. It’s measured in breaths…” She pauses, narrows her eyes at him. “In breaths and bad dreams.”

Draco makes a weak attempt at keeping his face blank but knows he’s failing miserably. He wonders why it is that she reads him like an open book. 

“Fine,” Draco says, ready to switch topics if only so he’ll stop feeling like she’s snaking into his mind. “What did the ravens take?”

“Aren’t you supposed to know that?” 

Smirking, Draco answers, “Oh, you see, I was late for that meeting.”

This wrenches a soft laugh from the Queen. She smiles, genuinely, indulgently, at him.

“They came looking for something, which they did not find.”

“Then how did you know _we_ were coming?”

“Scouts are usually followed by something, are they not?”

“Do you know what they came looking for?”

She eyes the diary. “I think you know the answer to that yourself.”

Draco picks up the diary, flipping it until he finds the right ripped seams. It’s an awful coincidence that the pages detailing the heart and the history of Atlantis are missing.

“Would the heart survive if you die?”

“I was afraid you would ask me that.” She pauses. “I would rather it died with me.”

Draco looks into the Queen’s eyes. Her irises are like contained storms. He feels his chest rising and falling, the perpetual pain still there. 

“Is your heart that hungry?” the Queen finally asks. 

“Does that matter?”

Her lips turn to a sad, soft curve then. Draco easily recognises the pity in them. It twists something ugly in his chest, a memory he’d rather forget.

“I knew one of you would share my dreams,” the Queen starts to say before she shakes her head. Pushing her chair back, she walks slowly to Draco. When she bends down, her long white hair cascades in front of her face. Draco can feel her hot breath in his ear when she says, “Anything dead coming back to life hurts.”

It makes no sense until she presses her hand to Draco’s chest. Then it feels like all the air has been punched out of him. A pain like nothing he’s ever felt before overcomes him, something that claws at his skin, wanting to get out, to rip him apart if it has to. He buckles over, coughing, trying to get her hand away but she keeps it right where it is burning through his clothes. His skin feels as though it’s being stretched thin. 

And just as she removes her hand, Draco catches a glimpse of her skin and it’s as though blue light is running in her veins instead human blood. Then the pain is over, the illusion of the Queen’s veins gone with it, too. 

He looks up at her, not able to speak. There is nothing to say. Nothing because now Draco is absolutely certain that the heart is what they came here for. He starts feeling a little sick. Draco swallows hard against what rises in his throat. 

“You’ll find it, without me,” the Queen says. “And I hope you’re better prepared for it.”

Her words confuse him; he’s about to press for more, but there’s a knock at the door.

 

Potter walks in with a bucket of water and what looks like a glass for the Queen. His eyebrows shoot all the way up to his hairline when he sees Draco at the table. 

The sight of him makes Draco feel sick as he finally gets it. He feels so stupid for not understanding why he’s always hated those bloody birds. Feels incredibly moronic for willing to look the other way when the answer was right in his face all the time. 

His palms start sweating as his mind rushes with the meaning of it all. He knows he’s making a poor job of keeping his face blank once more but it’s all he can do not to vomit right there and then. He can taste bile in his mouth as he pushes his chair to stand. 

He feels imaginary shadows with long, snake-like fingers grabbing at his throat, squeezing, squeezing. He pushes against them to make his way out, trying to walk, not to run as fast and far as his legs would take him. 

He thinks of the ravens and the heart and how there’s only one reason anyone would want to get a hold on it and he was done with this. 

He was fucking done, he _promised_ himself. 

 

Draco stops in front of the first open window he sees. He has no idea where in the temple he is when he looks around but the fresh air hitting him in the face is all he can care about. There’s a lake in front of him, water as dark as the one Potter and he saw coming in. 

Draco presses hard the heels of his palms to his eyes. 

Fuck. 

 

He hears someone approaching, Potter, of course, jogging up to where he is. 

Draco’s first instinct is punch Potter square on the nose. Then yell at him. Then straight out demand what the hell they’re really doing here. But the fingers at his throat remind him his first instincts regarding Potter have a history of getting Draco in trouble. 

“Did no one ever teach you not to run in halls?” Draco spats out instead. 

“You’re a git, Malfoy,” Potter says, though there’s really not a lot of feeling behind the insult. “We need to find that heart.”

Draco is about to snarl some not very nice things at Potter’s face. Breathe. Averting his eyes, Draco wills himself to calm down, think with a cool head. 

It’s then that Draco really sees the shapes on the lake outside. It’s the same rune he’s been seeing all morning. Taking his wand from his pocket, Draco summons his book on ancient runes. Long nails still claw at him, inside him. They scratch his beating heart as Draco opens the book. 

“What are you doing?” Potter asks just as the book flies into Draco’s hand. 

“You see that shape on the lake?” Draco points out the window. “It’s everywhere in here. I reckon it means something.” Then, he mutters through gritted teeth, “I reckon it can help find that bloody heart.”

Flipping through the pages, Draco manages to find a family of runes that looks an awful lot like the one on the lake. 

“So?” Potter asks, his voice like screeching nails against his bones. 

“‘Commonly used as symbols representing their people, the first rune of a given name marked important spots,’” Draco reads out loud. 

Blinking at him, Potter takes a few steps to properly peer out the window. Then, turning around, Potter scans the room, fixes his attention on a tall, wide chair. 

Draco hadn’t noticed it before. In fact, he sees nothing special in it. At least not until Potter says something under his breath, something that sounds an awful lot like, “In the eyes of its throne.”

“What?” Draco asks.

Shaking his head, Potter squares his shoulders. “Never mind.” Then, “I think we’ve just found the heart.”

 

Two things occur to Draco, as they stand on the edge of the lake. The first, that there has been an awful lot of water involved in this expedition of theirs. The second, that this is happening too fast. He sees shades around the corners of his eyes but when he turns, there’s nothing but Potter there. 

Potter has taken off his shoes and socks, toes curled around the stone edge of the lake like he doesn’t want to go in. It makes no sense. Potter makes no sense. 

He doesn’t trust Potter not to be incredibly daft about certain things. But… But not seeing how dubious this entire mission has been is almost the same as willingly cooperating with whatever the end game of this is. 

He doubts whoever’s behind this has lovely plans for their collective futures. 

 

“So, we swim till we find it?” Potter says, staring with worry at the dark water.

“Not very appealing, is it?”

Potter grimaces at the water. “I suppose it’s a good thing we’ve already done this.”

Draco looks pointedly at Potter’s cursed hand. “Try not to get in the way this time.”

If Potter is feeling anything like Draco, his heart is far too into his throat to properly roll his eyes or make a comment on Draco’s words.

They jump into the water at the same time. 

 

They swim, though it’s not long before they find a bright light that they follow. It brings them all the way into an underwater cave. Draco pulls himself up onto a rocky floor that looks eerily similar to their first underwater cave. Unlike the first cave, though, this one is small and well-lit. And, unlike the first one, in this cave there is a bright beacon of blue light floating right in the middle. Blue vapour surrounds it, going up, up, up and disappearing beyond the rocky ceiling. There’s no mistaking what it is.

“D’you reckon we can grab it?” Potter asks, walking closer to the light.

Draco follows him, considering his options. On the one hand, he’s certain they can grab it, otherwise they wouldn’t have been sent here. On the other hand, he doesn’t really think it’s a good idea to give it to Potter. It’d be like handing it right into the Ministry’s hands.

He could disappear. He could cut his losses right now and be done with it all. Be done with the secrets and the plotting and the goddamned shadows and just live a quiet life in the middle of nowhere. 

He runs a hand through his hair, wondering how much Potter really knows; if he’d take the heart if he really knew. 

“What would you do with it, if you could keep it?” Draco asks him, staring at the blue light.

“Nothing,” Potter replies. There’s a strange sort of smile on his lips, a little nostalgic, a little bitter, when he adds, “I don’t— I _can’t_ seek.”

“How noble of you,” Draco says. “And stupid.” 

He feels as stupid as Potter is, knows he’s making a mistake by not fleeing. But he already has too many regrets to keep adding to the list. “I reckon you can grab it.”

Potter is about do just that when Draco notices he’s putting out his cursed hand. His mind flashes back to his meeting with the Queen, her hand on his chest and the unsurmountable pain. 

“Wait,” Draco says before he can stop himself. He also remembers the first time he breathed the air of this place, the way he hasn’t breathed properly ever since. He hasn’t really had the time to think about what happened with the Queen. But now, seeing Potter’s cursed hand just inches away from the blue light, something in his mind clicks. There’s something about this magic that does not go well with curses. It would be stupid for Potter to lose his hand because Draco was not forthcoming. He says, “Use your other hand.”

“What?”

“Call it an instinct.” When Potter continues to stare openly at him, Draco adds, “You pick up certain things on the job.”

That’s all the explanation Potter’s gonna get from him, partly because Draco doesn’t know how to explain that he’s got a feeling about what that thing will do to a curse, and partly because he doesn’t _want_ to explain why he’s getting a feeling. Fortunately, Potter seems to understand that that’s all the explanation he’s getting for he turns back to the blue light in front of them. 

It feels like both of them are holding their breaths as Potter takes careful steps to it. Then Potter makes a slow grab for it and it falls without a fight into Potter’s palm. It’s as if Potter’s hand turns it off, all the light snuffed out. Taking out his wand, Draco casts a _Lumos_. Potter hasn’t moved a single inch. Under Draco’s wand light, they both stare at Potter’s open palm, where a large, blue precious stone is resting.

It’s almost disappointing when nothing else really happens. 

“Isn’t this rather anticlimactic?” Draco asks. 

“I always figured something would happen, you know,” Potter says, turning the stone in his hand. He throws the stone experimentally in the air.

It’s a second of the stone being in the air and Draco watching Potter putting out his other hand and, “Potter, don’t!”

It’s too late. Potter’s already grabbed the stone with his cursed hand, his face twisting into an ugly expression, as though he’s just been cursed with _Cruciatus_. He’s doubled over on his knees in the blink of an eye.

Horrified, Draco rushes to him, says, “Potter, let go of it.” But Potter isn’t reacting, too busy groaning in pain on the floor, stone still clutched in his hand. And Draco curses himself over and over as he tries his best to convince Potter to drop it. Because if Potter bloody dies here, it’ll be his fault for not being honest. For a million things he’s done wrong, and Potter _isn’t even moving_. 

“Potter,” Draco says. “Potter, come on!”

It’s hard to tell how long it is until Potter finally lets go of the stone. He’s breathing hard on the floor as the heart of Atlantis lights up again, floating up from the floor. 

“Potter,” Draco says, nudging him until Potter sits up. Potter is too busy trying to breathe to do much else, so it’s Draco who takes his hand to examine the extent of the damage. He almost doesn’t want to look, afraid there’ll be nothing for him to do. 

But when he sees Potter’s hand, he has to rub it once, twice to make sure what he’s seeing is real. Because Potter’s hand? It’s perfect. Back to it’s normal colour and warm, as though Draco’s curse never hit it. 

The stone could not have been in Potter’s hand longer than a few seconds. 

“How bad is it?” Potter asks him, staring at the roof of the cave.

“There’s nothing wrong with it.”

“What?” Wrenching his hand from Draco’s, Potter stares at it, rubs it like he himself can’t believe it. “Bloody hell,” he says. Then repeats, with more feeling, “ _Bloody hell_.”

“I would never have thought I’d say this, but, Potter, the feeling’s mutual.”

It makes Potter laugh in a way that sounds absolutely natural. A sound Draco’s only heard in the distance, never because of something he’s said. 

He ignores the way something tugs in his chest. It’s nothing. 

Then Potter says, “We need to talk.”

“You’re not breaking up with me, are you?” Draco asks sardonically. “I mean, it’s definitely you, not me.”

Potter rolls his eyes. Draco is positive this is what true exasperation looks like on him. “Let’s just swim back up, there’s something I need to show you.”

“What about the heart?”

“Take it, we’ll figure what to do with it after.”

Draco looks up at the light floating above them. “I can’t. Take it, I mean.”

“Why?”

“I just can’t, alright?”

“ _Fine_ ,” Potter says, taking the stone with both his hands.

The light goes out but Draco can still see the grimace on Potter, like the stone still hurts, but not as much. Wrapping it in a cloth, Potter stores the heart of Atlantis in his pocket before jumping back into the water. 

 

Draco uses a spell to dry himself before he sits, facing Potter, who is doing the same. 

Then Potter says, “You left the diary behind this morning.”

“You said you had something _show_ me, not say.”

“Well, the thing is, if you took the diary to her, then you probably already suspect something.” There’s a pause before Potter says, “She told me about the ravens.”

“So, are you finally telling me what we’re really doing here?”

Shaking his head, Potter says, “I’ve told you, I haven’t been given any other instructions.” Draco’s already about to leave, reckoning this entire conversation is pointless when Potter speaks again. “But I found this.” He’s got a folded parchment in his hands. “Actually, I think it was left for me to find.”

Draco takes the parchment Potter is offering him. It’s a ripped page in the same ink as the Shepherd’s diary. There’s a diagram, one that looks very much like the cave they just left.

Draco can feel his hands shaking. “Potter, what is this?”

“Isn’t it obvious? One of the torn pages. I think…” Potter inhales deeply, like he’s preparing for something. “I think they were all torn away by someone. The same someone who left it for me, the same who’s sent me the mission.”

“The Ministry, then.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Come on, Potter, think about it! They—”

“I have thought about it. I’ve thought about it ever since I found that page right before we were about to leave. It’s all very odd, isn’t it? Like whoever it is knows more than they let on. But it can’t be the Ministry, Malfoy. It can’t.”

“Listen, just because you’ve got _friends_ working for the Ministry, doesn’t mean—”

“It has nothing to do with my friends!” Potter exclaims. “Listen, whoever is behind this has known about Atlantis for a long time. The Queen did not see ravens yesterday! And no one really knows _what_ the Department of Mysteries does or _who_ is behind it. You said so yourself!”

“But the Ministry is above that Department. It’s the very reason why it’s called a department.”

“Not really. I’m not allowed to speak about anything with anyone who isn’t working my missions with me. But I know the Minister of Magic doesn’t know everything. And I had a look at some history books before we left. Did you know the Department was created well before the Ministry? No one really knows whose idea it was, but there you have it.”

“You saw what the stone did to you,” Draco says. 

“I know.”

“Potter, the Ministry was established centuries ago.”

Potter laughs but there’s nothing like happiness in the sound. “I guess the question is, how far does this go?”

 

There’s no need to go find the Queen in her room. When they make it back to the temple through the throne room, they find her there. She sits in her throne chair, looking for the first time since they met her like a real queen.

“So, you’ve found it,” she announces, voice reverberating. She’s even wearing the crown that was on all those other statues. 

And then Potter does something that would have never occurred to him. He walks up to her throne, pulls the stone out of his pocket and offers it to her. “It’s yours.”

She smiles kindly at him. “It is.” She takes Potter’s hand in hers, closes Potter’s fingers around the stone. Her eyes flicker to Draco before refocusing on Potter. “But you will need it more than I do.” She twirls her hand in the air, as though she’s waving an invisible wand. Nothing happens for a moment. Not until a scroll flies out of nowhere and into her hands. And both Potter and he must be staring like a couple of idiots because the next thing she says is, “Atlantis always had very powerful magic.” Opening the scroll, she nods at it. Then, “This is for you. A map to the exit we found all those years ago. There’ll be no time to find the same spot where you came in once I’m gone.” Her eyes fall closed, like her eyelids are too heavy. “You’ll need to find the one on this map.”

“You won’t die here,” Potter says, stubborn as he is.

“Of course I will,” the Queen replies. “I will die to feed the heart of my people. I will die with what’s left of us.”

“You’ll come with us, we have great healers in London, we can—”

“Potter,” Draco interrupts. 

“We have great healers!” Potter insists. 

But the Queen shakes her head. “I have nothing but old age and weariness, Mr Potter.”

 

The Queen dies with her eyes closed. She heaves one last breath before her body goes soft against the chair.

Draco knows there’s nothing they can do for her. He’s seen enough quiet deaths to know she’s gone. But Potter hasn’t. He rushes to her, grabs her limp body into his arms.

“Potter,” Draco starts. 

There’s really nothing he can say. Everything sounds inadequate as Potter tries to shake her awake. 

Then the stone drifts out of Potter’s pocket. It hovers over its dead Queen until her body floats right out of Potter’s arm. Draco stares dumbfounded as her body is suspended in midair. The stone is right above her heart when a tiny blue light rises from her chest, like a last breath that joins the heart.

The Queen’s body crashes to the floor.

There’s a moment of silence while they try to process what they just witnessed. 

Then Potter turns to him, red-eyed and pale-faced. Green eyes like broken glass. His voice is rough, accusatory as he says, “We could’ve taken her back!”

For a moment, Draco has the crazy impulse to move closer to Potter and hug him. It’s a crazy impulse that he doesn’t act on. Instead, he says, as delicately as he can, “No, we couldn’t have.” Potter looks like he’s about to argue, so Draco adds, “Potter, you don’t understand what it’ll be like—”

“What could possibly be so bad that they wouldn’t have treated her?”

“Potter, you said so yourself, we don’t know how far this goes. We don’t know anything about whatever it is that’s going on.” Draco stops. For the briefest of moments, he feels the ground under him shaking. He turns to the window to see if anything’s happened but it must have been his imagination because there’s nothing but green and ruins out there. Turning back to Potter, he says, “All we know is that whoever is behind this, is working from the shadows and, trust me on this, you know nothing about that.”

“Fuck you, Malfoy.”

“Fuck—” Draco cuts himself off. “Potter, you’ve always been on the other side,” he tries instead. He gulps when he thinks about it, about why he knows so much and how it will play out. “I… I know how this works, and it’ll be so easy for them. You’re with a known former Death Eater who’s been breaking curses for a living for the past five years. Don’t you see what it’ll be like in London if you decide not to hand in the heart?”

“Everyone remembers Voldemort. Kingsley won’t—”

“It’s not your name they’ll drag through the mud,” Draco cuts him off. And there it is again, a small tremble in the ground. He searches Potter’s eyes for something that tells him he’s not going insane himself but all he finds is sheer stubbornness. He ploughs on despite his gut telling him they have to get out. He says, “It’ll be easy to find out whether or not you’re bringing that back to them. I bet you anything they have those bloody birds posted anywhere we might Apparate when we make it out. You saw them on the boat.” He pauses, not sure he wants to continues. But. “It’ll be like child’s play to construct a story where you’re dead and I have a target on my back for doing it.”

“What are you talking about Malfoy, you’re insane!”

“ _Insane_! It’s what I would do! It’s what anyone with half a brain would do to keep their plan afloat. You die, I become a fugitive. You appear in London, you’re not you, you’re someone polyjuiced! You’ll be dragged to Azkaban before you know it. No one will care if someone sneaks inside and kills you for real because _you’re already dead_. I’ll be hunted down by the best Aurors! Potter, we cannot go back to London. Not until—”

There’s no mistaking the ground quaking this time, as half the roof falls right between the two of them. 

“What the—” Draco starts just as Potter yells, “Malfoy, watch out! _Protego_!”

He hears glass breaking behind him but nothing happens, Potter’s shield protecting him. Then everything starts collapsing, imploding and exploding left and right, the noise of it like being in middle of a war. 

He’s paralysed for a minute, staring in horror at nightmares coming true. 

“Malfoy, grab the map!” Potter yells over the noise of falling rock.

He snaps out of it, taking the scroll and spreading it open, cursing it for being so old and faded. They’re running out of the temple, going more where there’s less rubble than following the map. But everything seems to follow them, as if the entire place is crashing down around them. Running ahead, Draco blasts away everything that threatens to explode on top of them, but it’s not enough; things just keep finding and falling on them. 

Not knowing where to go doesn’t become a problem until they finally make it out of the temple. Draco comes to a halt as he looks around. Everything, this giant jungle and ruins and the water and _everything_ is collapsing, is sinking. It hits him right then that this place will cease to exist. An entire civilization wiped right off the map – for real, this time around. 

“Malfoy, what are you doing!” Potter yells from behind him just as the hand of a statue nearly falls straight into his face.

He can see what he wasn’t seeing before. It’s a hurricane of explosions and they are right in the eye of it. It has to be. 

“Potter, it’s the heart, everything is crashing around it!” Draco yells. “Potter, leave it!”

“We can’t!” Potter screams back. “She said we’d—”

Whatever Potter is about to say gets cut off by a branch flying at them.

It’s impossible to see where they’re going, and Draco starts to panic as he realises they’re not getting out of there. That only a miracle will get them out of there, and that’s only if Potter drops that bloody heart. 

“Potter, come _on_!”

“There it is!” Potter yells, pointing at nowhere. “Malfoy, there’s the exit, I recognize the fallen statue. We just have to move really fast,” Potter says, instead of letting go of the blue stone.

“What!”

“We’ll have to throw it back and forth.”

“What good will that do, Potter, don’t be daft!”

“We’re gonna need it, Malfoy, come on. Just until we reach the exit.” And with that, Potter throws the stone at him, like it’s a bloody Snitch or something. 

Draco’s reflexes work faster than he thinks and he grabs the stone midair. He almost falls on his knees with the instant pain he gets in his chest. But then the ground shakes harder under him, making him run faster until he throws the stone back at Potter. 

It’s just a matter of staying alive until they get there, Draco tells himself. They keep throwing the stone back and forth and they are so close now that Draco can see the exit. So, so close. 

They are pretty much there when the ground shakes harder than ever. It’s Potter who has the stone, and maybe it’s the quaking of the earth or Draco who moves to the wrong side but when Potter throws the stone, it hits Draco right in the chest. 

He feels blood spreading on his shirt, feels the dampness of it as he falls backwards. It’s like his skin is splitting open a second time, and he can taste the copper in his mouth. 

It’s the last thing he remembers before everything goes black.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this work is actually part of an on-going series. I'm posting the series as separate fics because there are certain breaks between parts that are decidedly different and would read funny if they were only chapters of a longer, single work. 
> 
> This part has been ready to go for some time, and I just wanted to have it out there to remind myself I should finish the rest of it!
> 
> Please read and review if you feel like it :)


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